


what we need separately

by la_victorienne



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-29
Updated: 2008-11-29
Packaged: 2018-10-16 00:43:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10560502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: this happens every time jack dies.





	

His fingers map the hills and valleys of Ianto’s skin with all the precision and intimacy of playing a mandolin, which he learned fifty years ago, hiding from his next Torchwood mission, from a free-spirited woman on the cusp of the 1960s in Nevada, her hands as dry and desolate as the desert. Ianto sleeps on, dead to the world after all the commotion of the day, from the Rift trying to eat half of Cardiff to one of Rhys’ lorry drivers turning out to be an alien and ripping Jack’s throat out to the shag Jack insisted on when the day was over. Now his body is relaxing more and more with every moment he slumbers, Jack’s hands trailing over his skin, warm and strong and sure. He drops a kiss to the pale jut of Ianto’s hip bone, skims his mouth up to Ianto’s ribs, bites gently at every one, paying careful attention to the welcome, adored imperfections.

Ianto finally stirs, blinks out the sleep and disorientation, looks accusingly down his body at Jack, the exhaustion almost able to overcome the arousal in his face. “You really don’t ever sleep, do you?” he asks quietly, more coherent than Jack expected, for the hell of a day they’ve gone through, the hell of a week they’re living.

“I dozed for about an hour and watched you for another. It’s enough for me, even after – well. What happened today.” He moves up to be on the same plane as Ianto, meets his eyes. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Ianto laughs and runs a hand through Jack’s hair. “You just found my body too stunning to resist? Of course you meant to wake me. I’m not an idiot.” Jack turns his head away; even on the days he tries harder than ever to do something right, he seems to fail. Ianto cups him under the chin and turns back his attention. “It wasn’t a complaint,” he lightly reprimands, and draws Jack in, pressing his lips to Jack’s with only the barest of touches.

Neither reprieve nor acceptance, the kiss is merely soft and comfortable, intimate and well known. What passes between them in the silence, in the sweetness, is the world Jack tries every time to leave behind and never can, a commitment to beauty he cannot excise from his nature. He presses forward, deepens the kiss, draws his hands around Ianto’s shoulders and pulls himself flush against Ianto’s long, pale limbs and warm, soft skin. The kiss is gentle and warm, easy and endless, and as he slides a knee in between Ianto’s legs he remembers that this is what he comes back for, every time he’s dragged out from death, this is what he refuses to leave.

Ianto slides up, then down, a tease and an enticement, utterly aware of the fire he’s igniting just under Jack’s skin. Every time he wakes and Jack’s still here is a surprise; it’s only recently they’ve started coming back to his flat instead of cramping themselves into Jack’s austere quarters, and he perversely relishes each moment just in case it’s the last. Jack is mercurial and unpredictable, and any time spent with him is time worth spending because of it – but there’s always the fear, lingering in the back of his mind, that maybe someday Jack will walk away again. Give up what they’ve begun for something greater.

Jack presses back with equal fervor, lets Ianto roll him onto his back as if aware of the concerns running through his head. There’s something inexplicably at stake here, more than just a lack of sleep or a long day. Every so often they both need the reminder that what is here will stay here, heavy, strong, sure, for as long as Time itself will allow them, and that it isn’t wrong to want to stay.

Ianto mouths down Jack’s neck, nips at his collarbone, bites until he’s sure Jack really feels it in his revitalized cells. Body to body there’s nothing hidden, not when Ianto’s cock is hard against Jack’s thigh, when Jack is arching his own against Ianto’s flat stomach. Ianto is still glad Jack is alive and Jack is still afraid of letting Ianto in, but neither of those things are secrets and neither of them matter when Ianto descends and takes the head of Jack’s cock between his lips, leading them both right into the fire.

For a while that’s all they know – heat and salt and sweat and breath, unruly and welcome. They move in perfect tandem, the only thing perfect about them, breathing in unison and living with purpose. Skin to skin, bodies interlocked, Ianto presses and Jack cries out, sharp and vulnerable, falling to pieces under Ianto’s hands. If Jack was the one to start this, it is abundantly clear that Ianto is the one to finish it as he eases Jack back to the pillows, brushes kisses to his skin, trails a finger through the moist slick cooling on his chest. With precious meticulousness he runs warm water over a flannel, tidies the sheets and settles the duvet – all while Jack is floating, drifting high on his own impossibility.

“Sleep. I won’t let you go,” Ianto says softly, sliding under the sheets next to Jack, their bodies locking together like the halves of a broken heart. He is warm against Jack’s side and strong under Jack’s still mending body, the necessary piece for Jack to find peace. Jack’s restlessness fades and his breathing slows, finally settling into Ianto’s embrace, finally accepting what he needs. Ianto watches until Jack truly sleeps, smiles into his hair, sighs into his own sleep. He’s done all that he can.


End file.
